


a perfect waste of time

by grace



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 08:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace/pseuds/grace
Summary: Whatever you do, Tommy thinks with clarity, don’t show that you’re desperate for this. This is so sweet and it feels so good. Don’t ruin it with your fucking feelings.“Wanna get back in my lap,” asks Tommy casually, picking at the label on his beer.





	a perfect waste of time

**Author's Note:**

> Please be chill and respectful and do not in any way bring to the attention of the people named!!

It’s Saturday morning and Tommy has work to do this weekend but not a ton, less than usual. He’s starving after his run and makes himself eggs right after he gets back, before he showers. 

He tries to be quiet because Lovett doesn’t wake up on weekends before 10am at the earliest and will vociferously defend his right to do so if even slightly disturbed. But Lovett stirs of his own accord, banging noisily out of his room and into the kitchen, his face soft with sleep and disgruntled. 

Tommy smiles quietly to himself at Lovett’s hair, which is in a miraculous state of chaos and elevation. He’s wearing boxers and a hoodie, which seems to be what he always sleeps in. It takes Tommy a minute to realize the hoodie is his – one of his black Kenyon hoodies.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, swallowing his forkful of eggs.

Lovett doesn’t respond, bangs the cabinet door shut and says moodily, “Great, we’re out of English muffins.” His voice is rough from sleep.

Tommy doesn’t point out that _we_ are not out of English muffins since Lovett is the only one who eats them. “Jon,” he says patiently. “Hey, Jon. What are you wearing?”

Lovett, clattering the coffee maker ineffectually, seems to finally appreciate that Tommy is in the room and turns around to look at him. “What?”

“What. Are. You. Wearing?”

Lovett looks down at his own body, genuinely confused, then says, “Oh,” and makes a face. He turns back to making coffee.

“Oh?” says Tommy. “That’s my hoodie, Jon.”

“Sorry,” says Lovett insincerely. “All mine were in the dirty laundry and I was cold.”

“Jon,” says Tommy. “The only way that all your clothes will no longer be in the dirty laundry is if you take that dirty laundry and transform it into clean laundry using the miracle of science and technology known as a washing machine.”

“ _Okay!_ ” says Lovett, slamming the top of the coffee maker shut and switching it on. “Okay! I’m sorry! It’s too early, Tommy. Please don’t yell at me.”

Tommy doesn’t point out that Lovett is the one who is yelling, empirically. He finishes the last of his eggs, which were very enjoyable, and carries his plate to the sink, brushing past Lovett, who is staring at the coffee machine moodily.

On his way back across the room, Tommy grabs the hood of the sweatshirt and yanks it up over Lovett’s head. Lovett squawks and struggles, and they play fight for a minute, Lovett stumbling backwards against Tommy and flailing as Tommy relentlessly tugs the hood down over Lovett’s face and loops the drawstring around his head, wrapping his face up like a mummy. It’ll stretch the hoodie out, but whatever. Tommy’s had it for years and years at this point.

“God, you are a fucking nightmare,” says Lovett with dignity, muffled through the fabric.

“Wanna go to Trader Joe’s later?” asks Tommy cheerfully, putting the orange juice back in the fridge.

“I’m telling Jon about this bullying behavior,” says Lovett sulkily, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and making no move to free himself.

“Aww,” says Tommy, “Poor baby.” He grabs Lovett, makes a show of smacking a kiss onto the top of his head, and bounds out of the kitchen to go take a shower. 

*

They do not go to Trader Joe’s, because Trader Joe’s does not sell either of the two main staples of Lovett’s diet, Diet Coke or English muffins. They go to Safeway instead. Lovett stands on the rail of the cart, leaning on the handle, and Tommy walks ahead, pulling the cart along the aisles by the basket.

Lovett never makes a shopping list, just barrels through the store with a misleading air of purpose and grabs things off the shelves. Tommy always makes a list. He has a grocery list app on his phone that tracks his preferences and reminds him when he might be running low on stuff.

Neither of them cook very much. Lovett is actually a really good cook, but almost always doesn’t want to bother. Tommy can cook three things and usually doesn’t.

“I want to bake something,” says Lovett unexpectedly, in the cereal aisle. He’s opened a bag of Sour Patch Kids and is eating them. Tommy kind of wants one.

“Since when do you bake things?” scoffs Tommy.

“I bake things all the time,” says Lovett serenely. “Just one of many things you don’t understand or appreciate about me, Tommy.”

“You’ve never baked anything as long as we’ve lived together,” objects Tommy.

“Maybe I did, in secret, and just didn’t share it with you,” counters Lovett.

Tommy hisses in a breath in mock betrayal.

Gathering the items for baking a lemon cake takes a lot longer than it needs to because Lovett refuses to look up a recipe, insisting that he can recall the ingredients needed from memory. Tommy follows Lovett patiently in loops around the store, listens to him go on long ingredient related tangents, interjecting scorn or encouragement in appropriate doses. 

Lovett makes Tommy get items down from the top shelves, even though it’s clear that he could in fact reach them himself. Tommy doesn’t mind. It gives him an opening to make jokes about Lovett’s height, which Lovett vigorously re-litigates every time.

On the car ride home, Lovett throws his phone down on his lap and sighs dramatically.

“I’m supposed to go out tonight,” he says darkly.

“Yeah?” Tommy glances over. Lovett’s worrying at the edge of his thumbnail with his teeth. “On like a date?”

“Yeah,” says Lovett, looking down at his phone again, making a complicated face. “A first date. He’s texting me to confirm but I just like – yuck. Don’t want to go.”

“Then cancel,” say Tommy lightly, checking his blind spot.

“He’s really hot, though,” says Lovett, scrolling.

Tommy makes a show me gesture, and Lovett exhales impatiently but shows Tommy a pic. The guy is hot, in like the way that’s especially Lovett’s type. Nice cheekbones and great teeth.

Tommy whistles. “He’s smokin’,” he allows.

Lovett makes a frustrated sound. “He is and I haven’t gotten laid since, like, 2007.”

Tommy isn’t sure how to respond to that. “Seems like a bit of an exaggeration,” he says finally. Lovett got laid like two weekends ago. Tommy’s pretty sure.

Lovett says, “It just seems like too much effort. I would rather hang out with you and bake a cake.” He pouts and slumps down in his seat. 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” says Tommy, putting his hand on the back of Lovett’s headrest to look out the back window while he parks.

“Text him for me, then,” says Lovett, impulsively.

“What?” says Tommy, cutting off the engine.

“Text him and cancel for me. I don’t want to do it. You do it--” Lovett holds out his phone.

“Whoa. I am not blowing off your date for you,” scoffs Tommy, shaking his head.

“Please?” begs Lovett, turning sideways in the passenger seat to face Tommy and giving him wide pleading eyes. “Please please please? I’m gonna bake you a cake, Tommy.”

Tommy exhales in a whoosh. “Give me the phone,” he says briskly, holding his hand out.

Lovett makes a gleeful noise and unlocks his phone, passes it over.

Tommy scrolls down to the bottom of the text thread, scrolling faster past a message where the dude calls Lovett _so fucking adorable_. He bites his lip and types quickly, sends before he can lose his nerve. _Sorry, can’t make tonight. Something urgent came up. Talk to you soon._

He passes the phone back. He can tell he’s blushing and Lovett is gaping at him in open surprise and admiration. 

“Tommy Vietor,” says Lovett, in his extra gay intonation of admiration. He looks at what Tommy sent and laughs. “He’s gonna know that wasn’t me,” he says. “So polite.”

“Whatever,” says Tommy. “You’re stuck with me now. Let’s go bake this cake.”

Lovett makes Tommy do the boring stuff, like sifting the flour, while Lovett spends too much time picking out music to play. When the cake is in the oven it does smell really good though. Tommy is kind of excited. He can’t remember the last time he ate something freshly baked. Probably the last time he was home, which has been too long. 

Lovett is perched on the counter, cross-legged, on his phone. As soon as they got back home, he took his jeans off and put Tommy’s hoodie back on. Tommy didn’t say anything, even when Lovett got flour on the hoodie and even though Lovett is now sitting on the kitchen counter in his boxers and that’s objectively gross.

Tommy stands in front of Lovett, leaning his hands on the counter on either side of Lovett’s knees, says, “Whatcha doing there?”

“Nothing,” says Lovett, typing and not looking up.

“Hey,” says Tommy, rapping his knuckles on the countertop. “I thought we were having a roommate date.”

Lovett looks up, laughs. “We are,” he says.

“Then stop flirting with other guys,” jokes Tommy. “Get off your phone.”

“I will, I promise,” says Lovett, looking back at his phone. “Just give me one sec.”

“Who are you talking to?” Tommy tries to lean in and peek. Lovett tilts the phone away, makes a scolding sound. He puts one hand on Tommy’s shoulder to ward him off, keeps texting with the other hand.

“Nobody. Just – Darren,” says Lovett, distracted.

“Darren?” demands Tommy. “Is this the guy I just blew off for you?”

“No! Different guy.”

“Damn, Lovett,” says Tommy.

“I’ve really got a lot going on right now,” agrees Jon. He locks his phone, finally, puts it on the counter next to him. 

Lovett eats a Sour Patch Kid from the giant bag that both of them have been steadily eating from. Tommy takes one too, even though he’s sick of eating them.

“Who’s the guy I texted? What’s his name?”

“Brandon,” says Lovett, kind of rolling the name around in his mouth with relish. It makes Tommy smile.

The oven timer goes off and Lovett is very bossy and dramatic about the process of getting the cake out of the pan and onto the cooling rack, an item Tommy was previously unaware that they owned. 

They play Call of Duty while they wait for the cake to cool, which Lovett is way better at than Tommy, which doesn’t stop Tommy from subjecting Lovett to an onslaught of his finest Masshole shit-talking. 

Things are just starting to go okay for Tommy in the game, when Lovett’s phone pings and he hits pause. 

Tommy groans in protest. He flops back on the couch and throws the controller down. “Unbelievable!” he says.

“Sorry,” says Lovett unrepentantly. He’s biting his lower lip a little to hide his smile while he looks at his phone screen. “Sorry, Tommy. Am I bugging you?”

Instead of answering, Tommy reaches across the couch, grabs the phone from Lovett’s hand. He pins Lovett against the back of the couch with one hand on his shoulder, and holding the phone away from Lovett with the other hand, he texts whoever Lovett is talking to. 

“Sorry, can’t talk right now, I’m hanging out with my roommate Tommy and it’s really rude to ignore him,” he narrates as he types. 

He hits send and carefully pitches Lovett’s phone into the chair across the room. Looks at Lovett triumphantly.

Lovett is giggling uncontrollably, eyes bright. He’s not pushing back against Tommy’s arm, which Tommy is holding firm across Lovett’s shoulder and chest.

“Wow Tommy. Are you feeling jealous?” asks Lovett slyly. 

“No,” says Tommy. “I just think you’re being really rude.”

“So you’re teaching me a lesson about being rude?” Lovett asks innocently.

“Yes,” Tommy says. He knows he’s blushing but he ignores it. “Apologize to me.”

“Apologize for what?” protests Lovett. “Not making you the center of the universe?” He rolls his eyes and looks pointedly away from Tommy. 

Tommy grabs Lovett’s chin, forces him to look back at Tommy. “Say, ‘I’m sorry for ignoring you, Tommy.’”

Lovett stares at Tommy, still half smiling. His eyes look really dark. He’s quiet for a long couple seconds. 

Tommy is about to let go of him and apologize for being too mean and taking this bit too far, but then Lovett says, “I’m sorry for ignoring you, Tommy.”

“Good,” says Tommy. “Good. Say, ‘Tommy, I’m sorry for interrupting your winning streak on Call of Duty to text my boyfriend.’”

Lovett laughs incredulously. “First of all, you were _not_ winning and second of all, he is _not_ my boyfriend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” dismisses Tommy. “Just apologize.”

Lovett shifts a little beneath Tommy’s arm, resentfully. “Fine,” he says. “Tommy, I’m sorry for interrupting your _disputed_ winning streak on Call of Duty to text my fuckbuddy.”

“Good,” says Tommy. “Last one. Say, ‘Tommy, I’m sorry for taking your favorite hoodie without your permission and ruining it.’”

“It is _not_ your favorite one,” mumbles Lovett rebelliously. “The red one is your favorite one.”

“Say it, Lovett,” warns Tommy.

“Or what?” demands Lovett.

“Or else I’ll eat all the cake and won’t let you have any,” Tommy threatens.

“You wouldn’t,” says Lovett confidently.

“Or else I’ll text every guy in your phone something really embarrassing. Like that you’ve converted to Christianity and decided to be straight now.”

“Wow, you really are jealous,” says Lovett smugly. “Trying to make me un-dateable. You just want me all to yourself, don’t you Tommy.”

“Say it,” says Tommy, tightening his grip on Lovett’s shoulder and pressing down a fraction harder across Lovett’s chest with his arm.

Lovett’s head thunks back against the back of the couch. He looks at Tommy, still smiling, but his eyes are intent, searching. Tommy’s mouth feels dry.

“Tommy,” starts Lovett. His voice is quieter. “I’m sorry for taking your favorite hoodie without your permission.”

“And I’m sorry for ruining it,” prompts Tommy – voice softer, to match Lovett’s.

“And I’m sorry for ruining it,” repeats Lovett. He’s almost whispering.

Tommy can’t look away from Lovett, can’t loosen his grip. He feels frozen in place.

Lovett gently puts both his hands on Tommy’s forearm, nudges a little. Tommy lets go, lets Lovett up. Without looking away from Tommy’s face, Lovett crawls forward on the couch, into Tommy’s lap, loops his arms around Tommy’s neck and kisses him. 

It’s a sweet, gentle, repentant open-mouthed kiss, and it makes something in Tommy’s throat choke up like it does when he needs to cry but can’t. He kisses Lovett back just as gently and runs the palm of his hand slowly up and down Lovett’s spine. 

Across the room in the chair Lovett’s phone is pinging periodically with text alerts. Lovett doesn’t react, keeps kissing Tommy slowly and gently, his fingers carefully stroking through Tommy’s hair. It feels really good.

When Lovett finally stops kissing Tommy and smiles down at him, Lovett’s mouth looks all soft and red and shiny. It feels weird to see that, causes a flip in Tommy’s stomach.

“Do you feel better, you big baby?” teases Lovett, softly.

Tommy nods. “Good apology,” he says. His hands spread out on Lovett’s thighs feel too big, awkward.

Lovett kisses him one more time, so sweetly. “I want cake now,” he says.

Tommy clears his throat. “That sounds good,” he agrees. 

They don’t cut slices of the cake. They just eat forkfuls of it straight off the cooling rack in the kitchen, Lovett sitting on the counter next to the stove and Tommy standing between his knees. 

“This is very good, Jon,” says Tommy. “Good work.”

“See, I told you,” says Lovett. “I’m not just an intellectual juggernaut, Tommy. I have soft skills too. I’m gonna make somebody a really great husband someday.”

“Sure you are,” says Tommy. He kisses Lovett with cake in his mouth.

They make a half-hearted gesture at going back to playing Call of Duty, but fairly quickly they just end up kissing again, while sitting next to each other on the couch - the controllers on their laps, the game paused and the lights off in the living room.

Lovett’s thigh and shoulder are pressed against Tommy’s, and Tommy has to crane his neck a little to the side to kiss Lovett. They kiss until Tommy’s lips start to tingle and feel numb, until his neck hurts, until his dick aches in his jeans. 

“Beer break,” says Lovett, smiling. His eyes are dark and his face is a little flushed. He looks happy and relaxed. See, Tommy tells himself. Lovett’s getting something out of this too.

“Bring me one,” says Tommy.

When Lovett hops up from the couch, he kind of shoves Tommy’s head away from him affectionately, like roughhousing with a dog. Tommy waits until Lovett has left the room before reaching down to touch his dick through his jeans, adjust it. He’s so fucking stupidly hard. Jesus.

Lovett hands him an open beer and flops down on the couch next to him with a sigh.

“Thanks,” says Tommy.

“You’re welcome,” says Lovett sanctimoniously. “Hey, if you wanted to make out with me on the couch all night Tommy, you could have just said so. I thought we really had a foundation of honesty going here.”

“I didn’t say anything about all night,” says Tommy, pretending to check his watch. “It’s only like 8pm.”

Lovett laughs. He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch next to Tommy, in Tommy’s stupid hoodie, beer bottle in one hand and chunk of lemon cake in the other. He’s eating it and getting crumbs everywhere. 

Whatever you do, Tommy thinks with clarity, don’t show that you’re desperate for this. This is so sweet and it feels so good. Don’t ruin it with your fucking feelings.

“Wanna get back in my lap,” asks Tommy casually, picking at the label on his beer.

Lovett looks at him sharply, eating the last of his cake.

“For what,” he says, swallowing.

Tommy shrugs. “To make out some more, I guess.”

“Oh, okay,” say Lovett. “Hang on a sec.”

He crosses the room and picks up his phone from the chair where Tommy threw it. He starts to scroll through whatever series of notifications he’s gotten, makes a little half laugh, half _yikes_ face and sits down in the chair.

Tommy drops his head back against the back of the couch, looks at the ceiling. He lifts his beer, takes a swallow.

“Sorry,” says Lovett absently. “It’s just Favs, it’s just a work thing.”

“Tell Favreau to improve his work-life balance,” snips Tommy.

“Hey,” says Lovett. “This is important stuff. Crucial stuff. Mouthpiece of democracy, etc.”

He types and mumbles to himself for a minute. Tommy focuses on drinking his beer and not thinking about how hard he is. Lovett gives a decisive sigh finally and drops his phone back in the chair, crosses the room to climb back in Tommy’s lap, smiling brightly.

“Sorry to neglect you,” he says, taking the beer out of Tommy’s hand, putting it on the table next to the couch. He takes Tommy’s face in his hands and gives him a long, slow, lingering kiss. 

Tommy’s heartrate kicks all the way back up again and he has to fucking fight not to push his hips up against Lovett’s ass. Lovett’s just sitting there in Tommy’s lap in his fucking boxers. Lovett’s not even really hard, he’s got like a little half chub going on. Tommy has no idea how to play this.

“What’d Favs want?” he asks. His voice comes out a little breathless, a little husky.

Lovett smiles. “Just wanted to check if I was treating you right.”

“Shut up,” says Tommy, embarrassed. He pinches the skin on the inside of Lovett’s thigh just above his knee, not hard. Lovett shifts suddenly in his lap and his eyes change, darken. Okay.

“What would Favs think about this whole scenario with you, huh?” says Lovett. “Oh my god. Can you imagine. His fucking face.”

“I don’t want to imagine,” says Tommy. “Yikes.”

“Good thing he’ll never know,” agrees Lovett, leaning down to kiss Tommy again. Tommy tilts his head up into it, tries not to be too eager. Lovett puts his hands back into Tommy’s hair, scratching a little at Tommy’s scalp, and it feels so fucking good. Tommy can hear the blood rushing in his ears. 

When Lovett’s phone pings from across the room and Lovett shifts to stand, pushing up onto his knees on either side of Tommy’s thighs, Tommy doesn’t think about it. He just puts his hands on Lovett’s hips and says, “Stop.”

Lovett pauses, looks at Tommy intently. His eyes flick back and forth between Tommy’s. He looks cautious, like he’s gauging something out. 

“Could be important,” he says lightly.

Tommy shakes his head, doesn’t let up his grip on Lovett’s hips. He can feel himself blushing like crazy.

“Could be another try at a booty call from Brandon,” says Lovett slyly.

Tommy slides one hand down from Lovett’s hip to his thigh and pinches him again, much harder this time, on the smooth solid flesh where his boxers have ridden up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” breathes Lovett, pitching forward and kind of collapsing against Tommy, so Tommy’s nose is pressed to the sweaty curls above Jon’s ear. “Fuck, Tommy. You don’t like that idea, huh.”

“No, I don’t,” says Tommy.

Lovett pushes back up onto his knees defiantly. Both of Tommy’s hands are on Lovett’s thighs now and he can feel them shaking, trembling lightly. He slides the fingers of his left hand slowly up into Lovett’s boxers to touch the smooth skin on Lovett’s upper thigh, eyes on Lovett’s face. Lovett’s staring at him. Tommy doesn’t do anything, just lets his fingers rest there and looks at Lovett. 

Lovett chews his lip. “So you don’t want me to-” Lovett laughs a little breathless laugh and starts over. “You think maybe I’m still looking to find a better deal than this for my Saturday night, huh.”

He’s looking directly at Tommy’s face, biting his lip. When Tommy pinches he digs in harder this time, twists the skin a little. Watches Lovett’s face. The breath leaves Lovett in a slow gasp and his eyes glaze a little. He looks down at Tommy helplessly, mouth hanging open a little.

Tommy’s heart is racing. He’s totally fucking out to sea on this one. All he can do is look at Lovett’s face for guidance. 

Lovett shifts a little on Tommy’s lap, shakes his head and grimaces impatiently. He leans forward to kiss Tommy and it’s different from all the kisses earlier, messier and more urgent. Tommy can feel that Lovett’s jaw is trembling a little. He reaches up to touch Lovett’s face, just lightly, and Lovett makes an impatient noise, grabs Tommy’s hand and guides it back down to his thigh.

“What are you – what are you doing?” asks Tommy. He laughs a little, weakly.

“What are _you_ doing?” fires back Lovett defensively.

“I don’t have any fucking idea,” says Tommy. His voice sounds raw. 

“Do it again,” says Lovett.

“Do what again?” Tommy is honestly confused. “Pinch you again?”

Lovett makes an impatient sound. “Shut up,” he says. “God. Fuck. Tommy. Shut up and hurt me-” and he crushes his mouth against Tommy’s and grinds down hard in Tommy’s lap. It’s blindingly hot. Tommy can’t think. 

He grips Lovett’s thighs hard, rolls his hips up against Lovett’s ass. Lovett is gasping against his mouth and when Tommy pinches him again – hard, right on the soft flesh on the inside of his thigh this time –the gasp turns into a shuddery, whimpery half-vocalized sound that makes Tommy feel like he might either die or just come right now.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” says Lovett, laughing a little. His face is pressed against Tommy’s hair. “God. I didn’t think you would. Good little Tommy.”

“Shut the fuck up,” says Tommy. He pinches again, and again. Thinks about other middle school torture techniques and tries flicking Lovett hard with his fingers also. Wishes, crazily, that he had a rubber band to snap against Lovett’s soft smooth skin.

Lovett is falling apart in his lap, alternately grinding against Tommy’s thigh and twisting to get away from his fingers.

“This is a way better Saturday night plan than either Brandon or Darren,” says Lovett breathlessly.

“No,” says Tommy firmly. He reaches up and grabs Lovett by the jaw, holding his head still, making him look at Tommy. “Stop doing that. Stop trying to bait me.”

“Stop taking the bait,” Lovett fires back quickly.

Tommy laughs a little, helplessly. “You – you are fucking menace, Jon,” he says.

Lovett twists his head a little, bites at the thin skin between Tommy’s thumb and his forefinger. “You should probably teach me better, then,” he says. 

Tommy drags Lovett down to his mouth, kisses him hard and deep. He wraps one arm over Lovett’s broad soft shoulders to hold him in place, uses his other hand to pinch and twist relentlessly along the tender skin of Lovett’s thigh and hip and his soft waist under Tommy’s hoodie. 

Tommy rolls his hips up and Lovett grinds down and Lovett’s twisting frantically against him, making noises against Tommy’s mouth that make Tommy feel like he’s on fire. Then Lovett grinds down against him _hard_ , presses his face against Tommy’s shoulder, and sobs “ _Oh fuck_.” Tommy can feel him coming, in his boxers on Tommy’s lap on their couch.

Tommy’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. Lovett is a limp warm weight against him, taking shuddery panting little breaths against his shoulder. Tommy rubs his hand up and down Lovett’s side once or twice, soothingly. 

Lovett groans deeply and then laughs against Tommy’s shoulder. He turns his head to the side and breathes out. “Ugh. Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Sorry for what?” says Tommy, stupid.

Lovett sits up, looks down at Tommy. Tommy knows his face is red and his forehead is shiny and his chest is heaving and his hair probably looks incredibly stupid from Lovett’s hands running through it. He feels raw.

Instead of answering, Lovett slides his hand down, unzips Tommy’s jeans. “Want a blowjob?” he asks, lightly. He’s still out of breath.

Tommy means to say something like, _only if you feel like it_ or _you don’t have to_ but what comes out of his dumb mouth is, “-No.”

“No?” snaps Lovett immediately. “You don’t want to close your eyes and get your dick sucked? What was all that for?”

“It wasn’t for anything,” says Tommy, weakly. “Lovett. Jon. Can you – can you just-” 

He tugs on the front of Lovett’s (Tommy’s) sweatshirt. Lovett leans forward reluctantly, suspiciously. Tommy kisses him, desperate and open-mouthed and after a second Lovett relents and kisses him back. He shifts so he can keep kissing Tommy while he finishes unbuttoning and unzipping Tommy’s jeans, reaches inside. Lovett’s hand on his dick makes Tommy make an awful undignified sound. God, he fucking loves Jon’s hands. He spreads his knees wider and bites hard on Lovett’s lower lip, pleading.

“Hey,” says Lovett, pulling away. He’s cupping Tommy’s face in one hand, his other hand jammed in Tommy’s boxers. Tommy arches his neck desperately but Lovett leans back, keeps his mouth just out of Tommy’s reach. “Hey, Tommy.”

“What, Jon,” Tommy asks, helplessly.

Lovett leans in to kiss him again and then whispers against his mouth, “You sure you don’t wanna make me choke on your dick?”

Tommy feels a frisson of heat through his body so intense he feels like he might pass out. He doesn’t know how to answer. He looks at Lovett, wide-eyed.

Lovett kisses the side of Tommy’s jaw, his neck, beneath Tommy’s ear. He whispers, “You can if you want. I’ll let you. I’ll show you how.”

“Is that what you would have done with one of those other guys?” Tommy blurts. It just slips out, before Tommy can think. 

Lovett freezes for a second. He leans up to look at Tommy’s face, thoughtfully. 

“If I had gone out with one of those guys tonight,” he says finally. “I’d have tried to be funny and tried to act cute and tried to get them to take me home and fuck me. That’s what I do on dates. For the most part.”

“You’re always funny and cute,” says Tommy. “You don’t have to try.”

“That’s very nice, Tommy,” says Lovett, mockingly. “You’re always so nice to me. Always give me what I need.”

“I want to,” says Tommy, fast, before he can lose his nerve. “Yes. Please.”

“Want to what?” Lovett’s eyes are sharp and Tommy isn’t sure why. He’s so out of his depth with all of this. He just wants to make Lovett smile at him. “Want to fuck me? Want me to blow you?”

“Want you to blow me,” says Tommy, throwing caution to the wind. His face burns but he’s turned on desperately enough that he’s just coasting somewhere out there past shame.

Lovett has a sly smug look on his face. “First say, ‘Get on your knees, Jon,’” he instructs, with relish. 

“You absolute jerk,” says Tommy.

“Say it! Say it,” demands Lovett, fake stern.

Tommy slides his hand into Lovett’s curly mess of hair. “Get on your knees and suck my fucking dick, Lovett,” he says. It comes out quieter than he meant it to, his voice low and rough.

Lovett’s eyes widen. He makes a half-laughing, half groaning sound and slides from the couch to the floor in an undignified crumple, settling between Tommy’s knees. 

Once he’s down there he winces, adjusting himself in his sticky boxers, grabs the belt loops of Tommy’s jeans and yanks. Tommy lifts his hips, lets Lovett push his jeans down to his ankles. He grabs hold of Lovett’s hair again and tugs, gently. 

Lovett resists, a stubborn look in his eye. “Say-” he starts.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Lovett,” warns Tommy.

“Say, ‘What are you waiting for, slut,’” says Lovett, breathless.

“Show me you’re a slut and maybe I’ll call you one,” says Tommy. 

He doesn’t know where these words are coming from. They just pour out of him unbidden.

He tightens his hand in Lovett’s curls. Lovett’s looking up at him breathlessly, and when he finally leans forward and puts his mouth on Tommy, starts sucking lightly on the head of Tommy's dick, Tommy has to drop his head back on the back of the couch and look up at the ceiling or he feels like he’ll come immediately.

Lovett is a show off, in this as in everything he’s good at. He takes his time, keeps it slow, takes Tommy deep, until Tommy is panting and squirming and tugging on Lovett’s hair harder than he really means to – but Lovett just follows his lead, makes a sound in his throat. His eyes are closed, and his eyelashes and his flushed face and his sweaty curls and his mouth around Tommy’s dick look so fucking good.

“You look so fucking good,” says Tommy, his voice a wrecked rasp. “Jesus. Jesus.”

Lovett pulls off and says, “What was it you were gonna call me again?” God, his voice.

“Don’t fucking start,” says Tommy.

“Tommy, now you say, “You like choking on my cock, slut?’”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to say,” says Tommy. He unthreads his fingers from Lovett’s hair and flicks him hard on his earlobe. “I don’t have to ask, I fucking know you like it.”

“Fuck,” says Lovett. “Make me like it, Tommy.”

Tommy grabs Lovett by the hair, drags his head back down, and comes in his mouth.

*

The rest of the night, Lovett keeps getting Tommy new beers, asking if he wants anything from the kitchen, shifting over on the couch to give Tommy the better spot. He lets Tommy watch cable news without complaining and even laughs when Tommy shouts at the pundits and calls them assholes. He’s acting all bright and sweet. It’s nice, makes Tommy feel warm inside. 

Tommy likes when Lovett acts all bright and sweet - when it’s just the two of them but Lovett still acts like he’s performing for Tommy and sparkles with gratitude when Tommy responds warmly. 

But Tommy also likes when it’s just the two of them and Lovett is sullen and silent. When he doesn’t hide his anxiety about meeting deadlines or being funny enough when he texts guys back. When he’s grumpy but he still wants to be in the same room with Tommy, like that helps somehow. 

When they moved in together, Tommy didn’t think about that part, how it would be. He didn’t think much about anything at the time, just trying to get from day to day. He knew it would be fine, but he didn’t have any idea how good it would end up being.

That’s what’s so fucking scary about this night, and about all the things they aren’t saying afterwards. What if Tommy’s crushed this warm sweet bubble of safety with his stupid feelings and his stupid boner. What will Tommy have then.

It’s really late and they should both have gone to bed, but Tommy’s still sitting slumped on the couch, making his last beer last and watching MSNBC on mute. Lovett’s lying on his back on the couch next to him, alternately scrolling through an article on his phone and texting someone. Lovett’s head is right next to Tommy’s thigh, his curls brushing Tommy. Tommy could just look a little to the side and have a full view of Lovett’s phone screen, see who he’s texting, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the muted TV. 

Lovett starts dozing off, almost dropping his phone directly onto his face, and waking himself up at the last second with a start and the same little soft noise, every time. Tommy should really call it a night, head to bed, but he doesn’t want to. He likes this. 

Tommy knows he misses having a partner and that because of this for a while now he's relied on Lovett’s company in ways that are unfair and uncomfortable. That’s the actual problem with what happened tonight – not that they had sex and it was fun, but that it meant way more to Tommy than it could possibly have meant to Lovett, and that Tommy is essentially forcing Lovett to play a role he never asked for.

But right now, that context doesn’t really matter – it’s just them in this bubble of stillness and blue TV screen light. 

Lovett nods off again and this time his hand holding the phone drifts gently down to his chest. He rolls over on his side, pulling his knees up toward his chest and scooting up a little on the couch in the process, so that crown of his head is pressed gently against the side of Tommy’s thigh. 

Lovett’s curls tickle Tommy’s knee a little, but Tommy holds still. He doesn’t want to wake Lovett.

**Author's Note:**

> i barf podsa feelings into the void at amazonplanet on tumblr!


End file.
